The Frailty Of Genius
by Jcaslcgaiwd
Summary: John comes home and Sherlock has been brutally attacked. His friend begins to get better, but John begins to realize to frailty of the genius.
1. Chapter 1

John, come home -SH

Why? I'm at surgery. I can just leave work to entertain you all the time, you know. -JW

No, I need you to come home. -SH

Need me? Why do you need me? What, did you blow up another cat or something in the microwave? -JW

No. -SH

Then what? -JW

I was attacked. -SH

Oh my God! By who? -JW

By one of the gang members of that drug ring I have been trying to hunt down. -SH

Are you okay?! -JW

To be honest, no. Not really. -SH

I'm getting into a cab now. I will be home soon. How badly are you hurt? -JW

I don't know, but it really hurts. I am also finding it difficult to stay awake. -SH

Jesus Christ! Okay, stay calm and I will be there in less than five minutes. Stay awake, okay? -JW

I'll try. -SH

Good. -JW

John arrived at the flat and sprinted up the stairs, almost breaking his neck on the way up. He flew the door open, finding the place completely torn apart. The couch and chairs were flipped over. The large mirror was smashed into hundreds of pieces. With a bit of closer observation, he could see there was blood on some pieces of glass. He prayed it wasn't Sherlock's. He also notes that the skull was smashed and there was even more blood on the carpet. He curses.

"Sherlock, where are you?" He yells and hears a low reply from the detective's bedroom. He runs in, feeling his knees go weak. Sherlock was on the ground bloody, bruised, broken, groaning, moaning, and nearly in tears. The ex-soldier goes over to his friend and Sherlock looks at him with frightened and tired eyes. "Hey, Sher, I'm here."

"John." He says weakly, grabbing the blond hair man's jumper with his pale and bloody hands.

"Yeah, I told you I was coming. Come on, let's get you on your bed so I can check your injuries." With much groaning and struggling, he gets the shivering man onto the bed. Sherlock curls himself into a ball and John runs a comforting hand through his tangled curls.

"I am going to get a first aid kit, then I'll be right back. Okay?" All his friend does is nod in reply. He goes then returns quickly. Sherlock was still in the same place and position as before, which doesn't really shock him. He looks over his friend's body, getting a basic idea of his injuries. Sherlock had been stabbed several times. Once in the leg, another in his thigh, and on his back.

His nose was broken and his cheek had a deep scar on it. The bruises were mostly around his spine and chest. No broken ribs, but he had a large scar on his right side. Most likely from a heavy boot. The tip of his ear had been burned with a lighter and it has already begun to blister. He had a deep cut on his right hand, which would definitely leave a scar. Possibly forever. No other bones seemed to be broken, which was a good sign.

John was still angry though. No, he was pissed. He could feel a fire burning inside him. One that was about to burst and burn down everything. How dare someone break into his flat? How dare someone destroy the place he lives? How dare someone come in and hurt this man? How dare someone come in and hurt this man? How dare someone humiliate him? How dare someone break him then leave without an ounce of remorse or pity?

John wanted to yell and kill these men right now, but he couldn't now. He had to tend to Sherlock and make sure he was okay. John begins to clean and bandage up the wounds, while whispering softly to his friend. Sherlock just lays there, silently crying. The doctor thinks about his anger to prevent himself from shedding tears also. Finally he covers up the wounds and decides to ask Sherlock questions.

"Who did this?"

"Gang members. I don't know their names. They were wearing masks and gloves."

"How many?"

"Seven, in total."

"How long did this-"

"Since you left this morning. They were waiting for me to be alone." Sherlock answers before John even has a chance to finish his sentence. He suddenly feels a wave of guilt.

"Is there anything else I need to know?' Sherlock gives a nervous glance. "Tell me." John says firmly.

"They uh, they….." Sherlock suddenly stops.

"They what?"

Sherlock hesitates and takes a few breathes. Then he quietly whispers the next sentence. It was so low that John almost missed it.

"One of them raped me." John feels his heart drop to his stomach. He can't hide the shock and just sits there, speechless. The older man swallows uncomfortably. He finally finds his voice.

"May I uh, may I see?" Sherlock looks up at him, his eyes raw with tears and fear. John feels his heart break even more. The detective nods and John begins his observation. There was pretty severe bruising down there, but no bleeding. This was a good sign. There wasn't much more to do, until they ran tests at the hospital. If they could get perhaps a seman sample, then it would make it easier to catch these men. But for now, Sherlock needed rest. John gets him some pajamas to slip into and he tucks the broken man in.

He gives Sherlock something in water to help him sleep. John didn't like the idea of slipping something into an already jumpy man, but it was the best for him. The taller man doses off after a few minutes and John goes to call Lestrade.

'Hi, John, what do you need?'

"Sherlock's been attacked." John spits out.

"Oh God, by who?"

"Members of this gang he's been hunting down. Listen, I need an ambulance and some police officers here. Sherlock is sleeping, but he's a bit drowsy because I gave him something. This ought to make things easier for you guys." Lestrade sighs.

"Okay, thank. We'll be there soon. Stay put and watch him, okay?"

Yeah." He hangs up. John goes to wake the detective up. Soon everyone arrives and he puts his face in his hands. God, this was all his fault.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Hello! Excuse the long wait, but I had exams and a new semester started. Well now all of that is over with and I am back. Thank you for all the reviews, favorites, and follows. You guys are the best, truly.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

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John paced back and forth, too anxious to sit down. Sherlock was still in surgery so the ex-soldier had to wait. It seemed that the waiting would never end. That he would be forced to pace back and forth until the end of all time. He was scared. Wait, no. He was terrified. What if something went wrong? What if the detective died? How would John cope? He wouldn't be able to. He would be depressed. His limp and tremor would come back. Worst of all, he would be alone again. That was something he never wanted to experience again. Ever. He would rather die than be alone.

A doctor walks down the hall, calling for John. The ex-soldier goes, preparing for the worst. The doctor was old. About fifty. All his hair was gray and he wore big red glasses. His cheeks were red and round. His brown eyes were kind, but stern. John could tell he was a good man, just by looking at wasn't as observant as Sherlock, but he knew a good person when he saw one.

"Hello, I'm Doctor Sarden." He says, shaking the younger man's hand. "Are you John Watson?" John nods in reply. "Well, I am suppose to tell you about Mr. Holmes' condition because his brother has given you rights." The army doctor smiles a bit, glad he wouldn't have to wait to hear how his friend was doing. "I am prepared to tell you how Sherlock is, but it isn't very good." John swallows, ready.

"I'm prepared to hear it all."

"Do you want the good or bad news first?" John considers this for a moment. He was surprised there was any good news in this awful and sickening situation. He almost said good first, but then he decided he didn't want it all to be sugar coated for him. He was strong and he had to remember that. Especially in situations like these. With another shallow and deep breath, he makes up his mind.

"Bad first, please." Doctor Sarden nods, glancing down at his clipboard.

"It appears he has been stabbed several times. Once in his right leg, left thigh, back and shoulder. " John curses himself for missing that one. His nose is broken, but we popped it back into place. Some severe bruising is already forming there. It was swollen there, but it appears to be going down now. His spine and chest are severely bruised and will be there for a few weeks.

I wouldn't be surprised if he has difficulty breathing and some backaches. one rib on his right side was cracked, but that has been fixed. He has burn marks from a lighter on his ear and some of the tips of his hair. And he was obviously raped." John clenches his fists, trying not to yell or cry. The doctor puts a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Are you ready to hear the good news?"

"Yes." He replies in a hoarse voice.

"Your friend will live, luckily. He doesn't have any more broken bones. The surgery was successful and he is stable. We have given him antibiotics and painkillers. We tested and got a semen sample. Actually, we got two. Sam Karnig and Fred Poluy. They both have been arrested for drug dealing and theft. They were also put on a murder charge, but were not found guilty. With this though, you can get those bastards in jail." The older doctor says with a wink and John smiles, satisfied. These men were going to pay for what the did to his friend.

"I have informed the police and they are looking for these men as we speak. A judge is looking at this case and is just waiting for a court date."

"Thank you." John says and he gets a nod back.

"You can go see him, if you want."

"Yes, of course!" John exclaims and the doctor leads the way. They arrive at the room and the ex-soldier enters. Sherlock laid in the bed, eyes half closed. His face was bruised severely (like the doctor had said) but at least there was no more blood and he was alive. Slowly he walks over to the detective's bedside. He sits, but the younger man does not register him. The drugs were making his friend slightly loopy and not as keen as he usually is.

"Sherlock?" He says softly and his friend opens his blue eyes fully, looking at him.

"Hi, John." He says, smiling. He was so hopped up on drugs, that he doesn't even remember the attack. Hell, he's happy! "Why am I here?"

"Uh, you're sick and the doctors here want you to get better." He lies. He didn't want to kill Sherlock's good mood, even if it was because he was on drugs.

"Oh, when will I get better?"

"Soon, I hope."

"That's good. I don't like being sick." He says shaking his head, crossing his arms and pouting like a child. The blond almost laughs. He looks at Sherlock's thin body, noticing all the scars. Even the self-inflicted ones. He looks away, sick. The detective doesn't notice, too busy playing with the strings on his hospital gown. John gives him a gentle smile and gets up. He exits the room and finds the bathroom. He goes in making sure it was empty.

The doctor locks the door then sinks to the floor, crying. His heart was shattered. His best friend had been brutally attacked and raped while he was out buying bloody groceries! He should have been there for his friend. He should have kept him safe. How was Sherlock going to cope? John remembers the fear he had seen in Sherlock's eyes. The pain, the confusion, the want to be held and comforted. Sherlock Holmes has always been strong, but then a few men came and hurt him. They took away his pride, his confidence, his normal calmness and cold glare. All that was there was raw fear now.

They hadn't even gotten Sherlock's claim or the details of what exactly happened. They would have to wait until he was…. functioning. Even then, would Sherlock be able to talk about it calmly? Also, how is he going to be after they take him off of the drugs? Will he ever be the same again? He puts his face in his hands and cries, shaking severely. He was scared for his best friend and himself. How was this going to affect their lives? He cries for about an hour, breathing heavily and moaning. Thankfully no one knocks on the door so he is left alone. The ex-soldier's eyes become dry eventually and he wipes his nose with his sleeve, tired. Slowly he stands up, looking in the mirror.

Dark circles were under his eyes and his normally blue eyes were now red. He flattens his wild hair and rinses his clammy face. He straightens his jacket, then unlocks the door and exits. He walks down the hall and runs into the doctor. He informs him that Sherlock can go home Friday. John gives a fake smile and then sits. Six days, then the real torture began. Not just for Sherlock, but for him as well.

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	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Wow, so many reviews, favorites, and follows! I can't even! You guys are just brilliant, truly. *throws cookies and cakes of thankfulness* Okay, now onto chapter three, beautiful people. **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing or I would be rich and live in England**

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John paced back and forth, running a hand through his blond hair. He was scared, nervous, sick, worried, excited, ecstatic, and dozens more feelings were running through him. He hears the cab arrive outside and he goes to answer the door. Greg brings a very tired and exhausted Sherlock upstairs. They ease the detective into his bedroom and lay him down. He is asleep within minutes. They head back into the living room and sit, both sighing heavily.

"How do you think he's going to cope?" Greg asks, looking over at John. He shrugs his shoulders.

"He's Sherlock, he acts and copes in anyway he seems fit. It most likely won't make sense to any of us at first."  
"Do you think he'll shut any of us out?"

"No way to tell yet. We have no idea about the mental damage yet. Not until he is completely off the drugs and can speak on his own." The D. I. nods and gets up.

"I'll see you later, John. Take good care of Sherlock for me, alright?"  
"Yes, of course." He leaves and John rubs his head. He takes an aspirin, a few sips of water, and he takes a deep breath. he steps into Sherlock's bedroom, finding him asleep. The ex-soldier sits next to his bed, watching him sleep. He looked so peaceful and calm, as if he didn't have a care in the world. As if he was okay. As of he wasn't just brutally attacked and nearly killed. If only that was the situation.

The younger man stirs in his sleep and he begins to shake. He also begins to scream a bit. It was mostly words such as "stop" or "no, no, I don't want to." Evan "please, leave me alone." And other sentences of that context. He even yells for John a few times. This hurts him and makes him feel guilt. Eventually Sherlock wakes up, shaking, sweaty, and sobbing. The blond holds him while he cries into his jumper.

This goes on for the next few days. Go to sleep, wake up in the middle of the night at the sound of Sherlock's screaming and crying. He would hold him, he would go back to sleep. John would make him food, he would eat it with shaking fingers, than Sherlock would take his painkillers (with John's aid), afterwards telly, reading, or just silence then sleeping. John now just slept in a chair by his bed or next to him. It was a simple pattern, but Sherlock was getting worse. He looked paler, was losing weight, his hands constantly shook (he needed help buttoning his shirts because of this), he never wanted to be alone, some of his hair was falling out, he was weak, and most physical contact of any kind scared him.

They took him to a doctor and he just gave Sherlock some sleeping and anti-depressant pills. They helped a bit. He usually only woke up about once every night, verses five. John still watched him struggle and it hurt him. Some nights he would go in his room and cry a bit. He felt bad for what happened to Sherlock. That he wasn't there to protect him. It was all his fault. One day while Sherlock was sleeping, greg came by.

"How is he?"  
"Physically: better. Mentally: I have no idea. I'd say he's suffering from P. T. S. D." Lestrade nods.

"Has he talked to you?"  
"A bit, but not about the attack. Mostly about a case or anything random that pops into his funny little head. Anything to distract him."  
"Has he been hostile?"  
"No, just really nervous and scared. He always has that scared animal look in his eyes, unless I manage to calm him for a few short minutes. He only lets me touch him."

"I'm sorry."

"Not your fault."

"I have some bad news." Oh no, bad news was the last thing him and Sherlock needed. He takes a deep breath and prepares himself for the absolute worse.

"All right, give it to me." The D. I. nods and clears his throat.

"Sherlock has to make a claim of the attack if you want to take this to court and get those bastards in found out who had done it from some samples they had gotten from Sherlock at the hospital. Mycroft found them in less than a day. They were all being questioned now. John was going to talk to one of them in a few days, when Mrs. Hudson came back from her sister's. She had been devastated when she had heard what happened to the detective and had to get away for a few days. John didn't blame her.

"When is he due to come in?"  
"Any time before April twenty eighth. That's the court date." Okay, so four months. Sherlock could get better by then, right? If only it was that easy. Lestrade gets up and says he's got to go. What he really means is "I'll go so you can break the news to Sherlock in whatever way you see fit, alone." He leaves again and John sees Sherlock sleeping. he didn't want to disturb him, so he makes a decision to tell him in the morning. he would make a nice breakfast for Sherlock and break the news to him.

Yeah, that was the best way to do it. He heads into his room, laying down. He didn't even bother changing. He was just so tired. He wanted this hell to end already. If only it was that easy. Just a little wish or prayer and him and Sherlock would go back to normal. But what was normal?

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	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: So much love and feedback from you guys! Thank you!**

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Sherlock was not okay. He knew this. Despite what John said, things weren't going to get better. He was changed and it was for the worse. He hardly slept because of the nightmares. They had only become worse. Even with sleeping pills and medication, they didn't go away. He didn't want to be alone because he was too scared. When John was at work he would have Mrs. Hudson upstairs with him, or Molly, or even Lestrade. He would call anyone, just to make sure he wasn't alone. He didn't really eat either. He didn't want to.

He was worried his eating disorders were coming back. He had developed them in high school when kids starting bullying him and he couldn't deal with the stress. He had also cut himself the other day. He was just so alone and needed to feel something besides fear and he couldn't be happy, so he had shot for pain. He had regretted it immediately after, but that wasn't the point.

He still hasn't said anything to John. He almost considered using again, but he didn't want to make his physical state worse than it was at the moment. Maybe later when his body healed a little bit more. He would have to wait and see.

Sherlock hadn't gone to crime scene in a while as well. He didn't want to. That's the reason he had been attacked. Because he had gotten the leader of a gang (quite easily, in fact) and the members had become angry. Then they went after Sherlock. It was that simple. Well no, not exactly. Their was a bit more to the attack than that, but that was as far as he wanted his mind to dwell on to it. It hurt too much. He knew he would need to make a claim. He heard Greg and John speaking about a date in April, but he wasn't really paying attention. He had been too exhausted that day.

He was exhausted most days. Physically and mentally. He hadn't played violin in weeks, his fingers still healing. Plus his hands were so shaky. He was suffering from PTSD and it was bad. He was on so many medications of so many different colors. This one was for his skin, this one healed his bones, this one helped him sleep, this one helped him keep his head clear, this one minimized the shaking, the one helped with the depression, this one prevented infection, and so on. The pills took away what little bit of appetite he had.

He only ate when John came in mid-morning and brought him breakfast. John would smile and tell him stories about his childhood, some of his favorite cases, the weather, anything pleasant to keep Sherlock's overstimulated and nervous mind off of things for about twenty minutes. It was the best part of the broken man's day. Sometimes the blond man would slide into his room and they would watch telly or just stare at the ceiling and talk about anything.

John made Sherlock feel a little bit safer.

But he still wasn't okay.

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"Sherlock, come here!" John calls from the living. The detective knits his eyebrows together. John never called him out at this time. It was too early for dinner. It was only three in the afternoon. He puts him computer down and gets up. Sherlock was in his pajamas. He rarely got dressed anymore. Their was no point to get dressed. Greg didn't call him to crime scenes, but to be fair he didn't want to leave home to go to crime scenes. Most cases were emailed to him and he would solve them when he felt like it.

He opens his bedroom door and peeks out. "Yes?" He asks. John goes over to him.

"Your uh, brother is here to see you."He looks at John in shock. Mycroft was here? But why? To see him? Perhaps, but that was so unlike him. But Sherlock had been through something pretty traumatic. He exits his room and goes to see his older brother. He was standing in the living room with his umbrella in his hand and a perfect poker face on.

"Hello, brother dear." He says to Sherlock with a smile. He rolls his eyes.

"What is it, Mycroft?" John hands him a cup of tea. How did he know Sherlock had wanted one? Sometimes he underestimated John's ability to read and understand what he wanted and needed.

"I just wanted to see how you were doing." The elder Holmes replies and Sherlock nearly drops his tea.

"Are you serious?"

"Of course I am." Sherlock was shocked by this, but he had gone through a very traumatizing experience so it did seem appropriate. Mycroft still was his big brother no matter how much him and Sherlock butted heads. "So how are you?" Sherlock smirks a bit because he could see how unsure and uncomfortable his brother was. But then he realizes that he was here because he was worried about the detective's well being.

"I've been better." He replies honestly, sitting in his chair. Mycroft sits in John's chair. John begins making dinner for later. Mycroft nods, twirling his umbrella in his fingers. "You have news. I can tell. What is it?" He looks at Sherlock and smiles, impressed. Very few people could read Mycroft Holmes. He was surprised that sleep deprived, exhausted, half-drugged, malnourished, and miserable Sherlock could read him so easily.

"I have hired you a therapist."

"No."

"Why not?"  
"Because I don't need help, Mycroft." He can't help but scoff.

"Look at you! Don't tell me you don't need help!"  
"I already have help." He raises an eyebrow to his brother's answer. "I have John."

"John is a medical doctor, not a therapist." Sherlock sighs heavily.

"But I don't want a therapist!" He half-whines.

"Fine, but you need to get better somehow."  
"I'm trying, but it isn't exactly easy."  
"I know." Mycroft glances at his watch. "I must go. I have some… things to attend to."  
"You mean the Korean election." Sherlock snaps back, with a satisfying grin. Mycroft rolls his eyes.

"Goodbye, Sherlock." And with that, he was gone. Sherlock's grin drops though. His brother was right. He did need to get better and fast.

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